Miscellany of Poetry | Page 4

all between the sun and moon in the lands of Africa.?Hath a man three eyes, Barbara, a bird three wings,?That you have riven roof and wall to look upon vain things?' Her voice was like a wandering thing that falters, yet is free, Whose soul has drunk in a distant land of the rivers of liberty.
"'There are more wings than the wind knows, or eyes than see the sun, In the light of the lost window and the wind of the doors undone; For out of the first lattice are the red lands that break?And out of the second lattice, sea like a green snake,?But out of the third lattice, under low eaves like wings?Is a new corner of the sky and the other side of things.'"
It opened in the inmost place an instant beyond uttering,?A casement and a chasm and a thunder of doors undone,?A seraph's strong wing shaken out the shock of its unshuttering That split the shattered sunlight from a light behind the sun.
"Then he drew sword and drave her where the judges sat and said: 'C?sar sits above the Gods, Barbara the maid,?C?sar hath made a treaty with the moon and with the sun?All the gods that men can praise, praise him every one.?There is peace with the anointed of the scarlet oils of Bel, With the Fish God, where the whirlpool is a winding stair to hell, With the pathless pyramids of slime, where the mitred negro lifts To his black cherub in the cloud abominable gifts,?With the leprous silver cities where the dumb priests dance and nod, But not with the three windows and the last name of God.'"
They are firing, we are falling, and the red skies rend and shiver us ...?Barbara, Barbara, we may not loose a breath--?Be at the bursting doors of doom, and in the dark deliver us, Who loosen the last window on the sun of sudden death.
"Barbara, the beautiful, stood up as a queen set free.?Whose mouth is set to a terrible cup and the trumpet of liberty; 'I have looked forth from a window that no man now shall bar, C?sar's toppling battle towers shall never stretch so far;?The slaves are dancing in their chains, the child laughs at the rod, Because of the bird of the three wings, and the third face of God.' The sword upon his shoulder shifted and shone and fell,?And Barbara lay very small and crumpled like a shell."
What wall upon what hinges turned stands open like a door? Too simple for the sight of faith, too huge for human eyes, What light upon what ancient way shines to a far off floor, The line of the lost land of France or the plains of Paradise?
"C?sar smiled above the gods, his lip of stone was curled,?His iron armies wound like chains round and round the world. And the strong slayer of his own that cut down flesh for grass, Smiled, too, and went to his own tower like a walking tower of brass, And the songs ceased and the slaves were dumb: and far towards the foam Men saw a shadow on the sands; and her father coming home....
"Blood of his blood upon the sword stood red but never dry, He wiped it slowly, till the blade was blue as the blue sky: But the blue sky split with a thunder-crack, spat down a blinding brand, And all of him lay back and flat as his shadow on the sand."
The touch and the tornado; all our guns give tongue together, St. Barbara for the gunnery and God defend the right--?They are stopped and gapped and battered as we blast away the weather, Building window upon window to our lady of the light;?For the light is come on Liberty, her foes are falling, falling, They are reeling, they are running, as the shameful years have run, She is risen for all the humble, she has heard the conquered calling, St. Barbara of the Gunners, with her hand upon the gun.
They are burst asunder in the midst that eat of their own flatteries, Whose lip is curled to order as its barbered hair is curled ... --Blast of the beauty of sudden death, St. Barbara of the batteries! That blew the new white window in the wall of all the world.
For the hand is raised behind us, and the bolt smites hard?Through the rending of the doorways, through the death-gap of the Guard, For the shout of the Three Colours is in Cond�� and beyond,?And the Guard is flung for carrion in the graveyard of St. Gond; Through Mondemont and out of it, through Morin marsh and on, With earthquake of salutation the impossible thing is gone; Gaul, charioted and charging, great Gaul upon a gun,?Tiptoe on all her thousand years, and trumpeting to